“Eh? Shoes? It’s not many shoes I’m bound to wear out now. These’ll last my time, I expect. I’m a long age, sir. But thank ye kindly all the same.”
Tim was silent, partly because the object of his visit had failed, partly with awe of the old man, whose time was measured by the tattered slippers on his feet.
“You be one of Dr. Airey’s young gentlemen, I reckon,” said the old man at last. Tim nodded.
“And how’s the old gentleman? He wears well, do the Doctor. And I expect he’s a long age, too?”
“He’s about sixty, I believe,” said Timothy.
“I thowt he’d been better nor seventy,” said the old man, in almost an injured tone, for he did not take much interest in any one younger than threescore years and ten.
“Have you any children?” asked Tim, still thinking of the shoes.
“Four buried and four living,” said the old man.
“Perhaps they might like a pair——” began Timothy; but the old man had gone on without heeding him.
“And all four on ’em married and settled, and me alone; for my old woman went Home twenty years back, come next fift’ o’ March.”